Red Waltz
by ChemiToo
Summary: Russia very gracefully reflects upon his plans


He absently tapped his fingertips upon the armrest of his chair as he surveyed the room around him. Every inch of the walls and vaulted ceiling were intricately inlaid with gold and fiery scarlet, reflected upon the glassy floor below in the bright lights of the chandeliers. A small smile crept over his pale lips as he rose. Of all of the vast settlements under him, all the dwellings of humans and palaces within his jurisdiction, this place was by far his favorite.

He closed his eyes as he strode across the polished marble floor, his boots making soft clicking sounds that reverberated off of the shimmering walls. Yes, this place made a fine room for entertaining guests, having hosted many parties throughout the centuries. More importantly, however, were the alliances forged within these very walls.

He paused, taking a moment to chuckle to himself quietly, listening to his own laugh bounce around in the arches of the vaulted ceiling. Alliances. Allies.

 _Friends_.

He had no use for such things. Not when he had suffered so much. Where were they when he was a child, wandering lost in the frozen wilderness? Where were _they_ when he was tormented by that damned General Winter? When he had not even a pair of shoes to his name? When he-

He paused and slowly unclenched his fists. It was a good thing he was wearing gloves, lest he make his own palms bleed. He breathed through his nose, stifling the raw anger and pushing it down, as he always had. A peaceful numbness soon took its place, the most familiar of emotions that settled deep into his chest and slumbered in the depths of his fractured, frozen heart.

But he showed them, didn't he?

Oh, how he had showed them.

He had risen from the swirling ice like a jagged, frozen phoenix, triumphant and glistening in the light of the sun. His empire-no, his beautiful, patchwork quilt of republics-had ascended to become one of the most terrifying and formidable forces in the entire world. He grinned. Just let them call him "weak" now.

And it had been so, _so_ gratifying when they came crawling to him for help. They _had_ to, with the world being what it was. He was simply too strong for them to ignore him any longer. Even that capitalist bastard America had been forced to recognize his status. And not just that-he had to recognize him as his equal. His Ally.

He chuckled, throwing his head back to gaze at the beautiful golden ceiling above him. Yes, that had been a most celebratory day, when that bombastic little upstart had approached him with the intention of forging an alliance. He had been flanked by England and France, of course. He sneered; how those other nations had coddled him, spoiled him like a child even after his ascension to becoming his own nation. Their _precious little_ colonies, America and Canada both.

He had had no such coddling. He hadn't needed it.

And, looking back upon it now, he could never have accepted it even if it had been offered.

America had been forced to recognize his strength and legitimacy as a nation that fateful day. Oh, how those azure eyes had blazed ferociously at him. Seething, fiery and angry. His gaze had been answered by an icy violet one, flecks of gray twinkling like jagged fractals as Russia had defiantly smiled at him. America simply had no choice but to submit to their alliance, seeing as Russia had become as powerful as he had.

But what they didn't know is that Russia had always been like this. He was born of the tundra, in the white, barren wastes of the world that was soon to be his own. He was battle-hardened, frost-bitten, and strong. Ever since he came to be, this had always been so.

The others were just too blind to notice for a very, very long time. But he was patient. He had forged his own path, moving outward, ever outward and expanding his influence as far into Europe and Asia as he could manage without causing an uproar. Truly, as much as he hated to see Germany and his Axis causing such turmoil on the battlefield, this was a golden opportunity he simply could not miss.

Life in the cold, frozen wilderness had taught him many things. To never overlook an opportunity was one of the most important of these lessons. To do such a thing in the wild was a surefire way to die. And Russia fully intended upon surviving. Destiny was handing him Europe on a silver platter, and he was not about to pass it up.

And who was to say that he would stop with Europe?

He hummed to himself, swirling and floating elegantly across the polished marble floor. In his mind's eye, the empty room filled with people, humans and nations alike. Spectators dressed in their finest attire lined the gilded golden walls, parting ways for his guests of honor to enter. The newest additions to his glorious Soviet republic, sulking as he gracefully made his way over to them.

He could almost hear the sound of the waltz in his ears as he bowed and the audience enthusiastically applauded. When he rose, many pairs of eyes in many colors glared at him. Such hatred in those eyes; such a pity, really. He would take that sinister glint out of them soon enough.

He reached out and offered his hand to the owner of a pair of bright blue ones first.

America's glare became even more venomous as he cursed at him under his breath.

Russia tugged at his wrist, dragging him out onto the dance floor as he chuckled.

"I do not tolerate such talk in my republic, America," he chided, grabbing hold of both of the American's wrists and forcing him into a waltz. His captive squirmed, bellowing obscenities at him as his voice was drowned out by the music. Beautiful music, composed in Russia's homeland, strong and confident oh so vibrant.

Russia smirked as America frowned up at him, having given up on trying to pry his wrists out of Russia's grip and was focusing on cursing him out instead. He looked marvelous in red, Russia mused. All of his nations wore red now, representing where (and to whom) they each belonged.

He chuckled as he led America across the dance floor, violet eyes meeting blue. America seemed to have finally realized that him screaming in Russia's face would do no good, and instead glared at him in silence. Russia could get used to that, to those bright blue eyes looking up to him in hatred. One day, with time, he would transform that animosity into admiration. All he needed was time.

And, he thought to himself as he drew the American close and leaned down toward his ear, time was something he had plenty of.

"Welcome," he whispered, laughing as America lurched out of his grasp and stormed off to the side of the room, much to the delight of the surrounding audience.

Russia danced with each nation in-turn, drawing out varied responses and more than a few angry rants, but it mattered little. They were his now. All his, each glimmering iris that looked upon him with loathing or fear a brilliant gemstone with which to decorate his crown.

The world had, at long last, become one with Russia.

He froze as a sudden noise caught his attention. He immediately recognized it as the timid shuffling of feet, just beyond his sight from the entranceway.

The festivities vanished as quickly as he had conjured them, taking the music with it and leaving only an empty silence. He cringed; it was deafening.

"Lithuania," he called sweetly, a frightened squeak meeting his ears as he grinned, "Do not be shy, come out here,"

He watched as the slight nation crept fearfully into the room, clinging to the doorway.

"Y-yes, Mr. Russia?" he asked nervously.

Russia grinned as he extended his arm out toward him.

"Dance with me, da?"

* * *

Notes: I like to imagine Russia merrily dancing around Aleksandrovsky Hall in the Grand Kremlin Palace during this fic, rocking out to some Shostakovich. The palace is a very beautiful building with intricate decorations throughout.


End file.
